Breathe In, Breathe Out
by whycantIwrite
Summary: This is a story of Malcolm. He wasn't always the self-assured, intelligent boy he is. In middle school, he used to be bullied. Shoved. Stolen from. It was his fighting back that boosted his confidence in himself. But how does a small, scrawny boy fight against a group of muscled bullies? Perhaps it's time to take matters into his own hands… T for safety


Malcolm groaned for the thousandth time as he stepped up the cold, stone stairs. He dreaded this moment every day he arrived at school- and even on weekends, he'd receive phantom lashings of the pain and the humiliation. And that would hurt almost as much as reality.

Standing here, staring unmoving at the double doors that led to the school hallway, he felt quite silly. But here he had protection. Inside, anything could happen to him. He could practically see the legs and arms, tensed, of his bullies inside of the schoolhouse.

He gritted his teeth. Might as well get it over with. He knew what would happen- it happened every day- and he hated it all the same.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Before he could dissuade himself, he stepped through the doorway and into the entrance hall.

"Malcolm? Are you okay?"

Malcolm whirled around. Mrs. Cope, the receptionist at the front desk, looked at him worriedly.

Breathe in… Breath out…

"I-I'm fine, Mrs. Cope." He tried to put conviction into his voice. The old woman looked slightly unsettled, but didn't press the topic. Malcolm shot her a grateful smile. He hated when people tried to decipher his thoughts and tell him what to do- so, by extension, he hated his counselors. They didn't have to have their heads shoved down a toilet every day. They didn't have autism. They sure as h*ll didn't have to starve for a lack of lunch money.

A loud, clanging noise shook him from his thoughts. It sounded like metal striking metal.. or perhaps body striking door frame.

He whirled around again. Through door 1A, he could make out the gleaming eyes of Trace Anderson. His face was smooshed against the window pane implanted on the door, but he still managed to look threatening and angry at the same time.

Malcolm slowly backed away from the door, clutching his bag of lunch money so hard his knuckles turned white.

Every morning before school started, a group of 8th graders roughhoused inside classroom 1A, mock fighting and holding their own prospective gang in there. The teachers, being oblivious teachers, didn't suspect a thing- all the worse for Malcolm. He was their main beneficiary for the group in that he provided the money for the coke, pizza, and games for them. It wasn't as if he had a choice. Being held upside down while continuously dunked in a toilet didn't exactly leave many options for him.

He'd been trying to slip past the room unnoticed- a stupid attempt, really. They would find him eventually anyway. It was merely prolonging the anxiety to delay the inevitable.

So he didn't try to run or hide or scream for help as the hunks of 8th graders ripped open the door and filed out one by one. He simply adopted a resigned look and handed over the lunch money. Willingly.

"Has wittle Mawcolm finawy learned his place?" Trace cooed in a false-happy tone, eliciting a roll of guffaws from his gang. With one hand, he ripped the plastic bag from Malcolm's hand; the friction left a quickly disappearing, angry burn mark. Malcolm clenched his fist. Internally, he was fuming… but he'd tried to fight back nearly every day- to no avail. Einstein had famously said, 'Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.'

Was he insane to fight back? Was he insane to try to end this veritable reign of terror over him? Perhaps.

Malcolm turned to leave. His face was a pale white- a stark contrast to the angry red it would usually be around this time of day. He needed time to cool off- to let the anger out.

"Not so fast!"

A force suddenly hit him from the side; before he could process what was happening, his face was pressed roughly against the wall. A pair of hands held him there and kept him there. Muscled hands.

"Where do you think your going, wittle Mawcolm?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he could barely make out a fast-moving object. Shuffling aside, he tried to avoid the oncoming fist. No such luck.

The world went dark as the fist collided with his skull, sending his slender frame flying through the air. Dimly, in the corner of his consciousness, he heard a loud crack. His glasses, no doubt.

He groaned loudly. His head was pounding horribly, pain spiking through his eyes and ears. With one hand, he struggled to pick himself up, but a heavy boot collided with his back, forcing him down. His arms gave way under the force.

"That's enough." A gravely voice said.

"Who are you?!"

The pressure on his back faded to nothing. He squirmed sideways and tried not to cry out as pain flared up along his stomach. He'd broken something. He was sure of it.

Through a haze of blood and tears, he could make out the form of a thin man standing at the opposite side of the hall. He was old- very old, perhaps 80 years of age.

"Lay off the poor boy."

Trace looked taken aback by the commanding tone. It carried power and authority behind it, and, for a moment, the bully was tempted to do just what the voice asked.

But then he remembered his gang. He couldn't run! Running would mean losing face in front of his gang; to a 80 year old man, no less!

The bully fought away the irrational fear and sneered. "Make me!"

Stupid move.

The old man held up a placating hand.

"Do stop being childish, boy." And this time, the tone was venomous. "Step aside."

Trace sneered again. "As if!"

He walked up to the man and stood on tip-toes, shoving his face in front of the old man's.

"Take a hike, grandpa!"

This was probably the worst thing he could've possibly said. It certainly sealed his fate.

Before he knew what was happening, a fist rose through the air and struck him in his solar plexus. It was a precise and perfect shot, instantly incapacitating and knocking the air out of Trace. A flying kick quickly followed it, the leg movement faster than the eye could trace as it collided with Trace's skull, dislocating the jaw. The boy was sent tumbling to the floor, screaming in agony.

The body collided with Malcolm, and this time he literally felt several somethings crack. He gave a little gasp as agony flared from everywhere inside of him, as if thousands of needles were poking him at once. His vision turned red-shifted, and darkness crept at the corners of his view.

The last thing he saw before the darkness consumed him was the old man staring worriedly down upon him…

* * *

Malcolm woke up to the smell of chicken broth. Groaning and shifting his weight, he tried to sit up. A sharp pain instantly spiked at his stomach; gasping in agony, he settled back into what felt like a bed.

"I do not recommend trying that again."

The familiar gravely voice said. A hunched figure turned around, a bowl of soup in hand.

"Eat."

Malcolm blinked twice, but didn't refuse the small meal handed to him. Within seconds, he'd gulped down the entire broth. It tasted delicious and savory to him- but then again, anything would. He'd been eating refried beans his whole life. Diversity as a whole was exquisite.

"Where-where am I?" he asked. He looked to be in a stark-white room; utterly nondescript. A hospital room, perhaps.

"You are in the Samuel Shaolin Hospital. I am Dr. Wu. You are very lucky I found you in time… those children don't know their strength. They could've caused some potentially irreparable damage."

Malcolm took this all slowly in.

"What about school?"

Dr. Wu shifted his eyes to Malcolm. They were alarmingly grey and piercing, as if they could search his very soul. "I spoke to Mrs. Cope about the bullying situation." said Dr. Wu. His tone was soft, but it had a dangerous edge to it. "You are excused from school for the next two weeks for recovery, and the bullies in question… they were suspended for four days."

His eyes flashed as he said the words. Malcolm couldn't help but feel a wave of relief crash over him. Finally! Even some reprieve from the gang would be heaven on earth.

"If you're wondering why they were not expelled," Dr. Wu continued. "Their families, apparently, have connections with some of the school board. They barely, barely managed to keep their children at maximum suspension… unfortunately for you."

His eyes looked over Malcolm again.

"Hmph."

Was all he said.

Malcolm felt as if he should say something, but he didn't know what. A million questions raced through his mind like firecrackers, but first and foremost: "How did you do that?"

"Do what? Do be specific, child." Dr. Wu snapped. "I am not a psychic."

"How did you beat up Trace? One punch to the solar plexus shouldn't be able to-"

Dr. Wu held up a withered hand for silence. "I use a technique called Dim Mak. Is it familiar to you?"

Malcolm shook his head. He vaguely remembered reading the term when looking through an encyclopedia somewhere, but the entry had slipped from his mind.

"Dim Mak is also called the Touch of Death. It is a fighting style for thinkers, not brutes. Fighters using this method target pressure points to incapacitate opponents."

The doctor shot another cross look at Malcolm. "But that is beside the point."

He tapped a pen to his lip and scanned the small wooden clipboard resting in his palms. "Fractured knee… broken rib… dislocated elbow…" He glanced up. "Needless to say, you won't be going anywhere soon."

Malcolm groaned again. The amount of work needed to catch up in a two-week break would be dizzying.

"Boy!"

"Huh?"

Malcolm looked around. "Are you talking to me?"

Dr. Wu sighed. "Of course. Who else is here? By Thursday afternoon, you should be sufficiently recovered. Drop by my office. I should have something to teach you."

Malcolm blinked twice. "What?"

"Do you want to be rid of bullies or not?"

"Well, of course, but-"

"Good. Then drop by."


End file.
